“You a biologist?” he says as we taxi to the end of the oxbow.
“No. A fire investigator.”
“I didn’t think there’s anything on that island to burn. It’s just rocks.”
The plane roars and surges ahead, floats ploughing through the water, skipping across waves, then the water releases us and we’re airborne, lifting over the highway lined with cars, the bridge and the Athabasca River. The north end of Fort McMurray sprawls below us. Soon the first of the massive oil sands excavations come into view. An area the size of a city has been stripped of trees and soil to reveal an expanse of black sticky ground. Manmade rectangular lakes shimmer with temper lines of floating hydrocarbon. I think of Simon, dying among the pine needles, seduced by his big boat. Below me is seduction on a far grander scale. I wonder if anyone will pay for what happened in Fort Chipewyan, or for what might be going downstream into their drinking water. More than likely, the big oil machine will continue to run unobstructed, lubricated by its own success. My concern lies ahead on a much smaller piece of ground. I ask the pilot why Egg Island is designated as an ecological reserve.
“Some sort of rare bird nests there,” he says. “A tern, I think.”
Below us passes an ocean of pine trees, draped over old sand dunes, interspersed with lakes like dropped puzzle pieces. The trees peter out closer to Lake Athabasca, surrendering to an area of active dunes. At the north end of the dunes, where sand meets the big lake, is Williams Point — where Collette was rumoured to have gone camping. We’ve scoured the area by helicopter and found no trace of her. As we fly over the broad expanse of Lake Athabasca it occurs to me what a perfect location Egg Island is to hide someone. It’s surrounded by enough water that single engine aircraft cannot fly to it. As well as being incredibly remote, it’s off limits. Even if a plane flew over, it would difficult to see anyone from much of a height.
There is one type of plane that can fly there though — a float plane, and as I peer down past the long metal floats my pulse quickens. A tiny dot of land is visible far below us, no larger than a fly speck on the windshield.
“Can you take us farther down?” I ask the pilot.
The plane tilts and we descend, level out.
“Lower, please. I doubt the birds are there already.”
The pilot considers, drops us into a steeper descent. It’s difficult to estimate size with nothing around but wave-crested water. Still, the island scarcely seems to increase in size as we draw closer. From a thousand feet of elevation it is clear the island is perhaps a hundred yards across, little more than a round heap of cobble, bare of all vegetation but a few shrubs. As the plane levels out, I squint to see anything against the glare of the surrounding sunlit water.
“Can you take us down closer?”
“Sorry buddy, but a thousand is as low as I’ll go.” We pass the island, make a wide turn, head back.
“Holy shit,” says the pilot, peering down. “There’s someone down there.”
We drop sharply and I see a tiny form, barely distinguishable against the light brown cobble, whipping something back and forth. Closer, I recognize Collette Whiteknife, waving a grey sweatshirt, her anxious face peering up at us. The pilot buzzes low across the island, to let her know we’ve spotted her, then banks the plane into a turn and lands into the wind. Soon we’re puttering and bobbing toward the island. My whole body aches but I barely notice, focused on the mound of cobble sticking out of the water and the frightened girl waiting for us on shore. When we’re close, the pilot cuts the engine and I open the door, step down onto a float. Collette sloshes into the water, staggering, arms stretched in front of her. She’s shivering, gaunt and sunburned. I’m worried she’ll fall into the icy lake in her hurry to meet us.
“Stay there,” I call to her. “We’re coming to you.”
She’s shaking when I grab her arm, pull her up beside me on the float. She hugs me fiercely and we nearly fall. I manage to grab hold of a wing strut.
“Thank God,” she sobs.
I brush hair away from her face. “You’re okay now.”
She clings to me, wisps of hair tickling my face in the breeze. I look past her at the island, wonder what she must have gone through these past few days. She had plenty of fresh water, but nothing else. No way to make a fire. No way to signal a passing plane or boat. The island has nothing for shelter against the sun, cold or wind. There’s nothing here but rocks with bits of downy feather stuck between them. She’d have been hypothermic at night. Without food to replenish her energy, it would only have been a matter of time before she died of hunger and exposure, or a big storm washed over the island and took her with it. I guide her along the float and into the back seat of the plane, where I check her over. She’s suffered from exposure but otherwise seems unharmed. She keeps trying to hold onto me as I work.
“You’re okay. Just let go for a minute.”
Reluctantly, she releases her grip on my clothes.
“Porter?”
“Shh.” I put a finger to her lips.
“She okay?” says the pilot.
“I think she’s going to be fine. Do you have any food on board?”
“I might have some lunch left from yesterday.”
He rummages in the rear cargo compartment, returns with a thermos and lunch pail.
“Might be a bit stale, but there’s a sandwich and some coffee.”
Collette attacks the sandwich, quickly drains the coffee. When she’s done, I strap her in, close the doors of the plane, ask the pilot to take us to Fort Chipewyan. I take the seat next to Collette in the back, pull on a headset against the roar of the engine, watch the nose of the plane rise as we take off. Collette sits stiffly beside me, hands clenched together in her lap.
“What happened?” I ask her through the headset.
She remains silent. A few moments pass.
“I have to tell you something, Collette. Your uncle, Rodney, has passed away.”
Her shoulders sag and her lip trembles.
“I’m sorry. Were you close to him?”
She shakes her head, stares out of the window.
“What really happened at that cabin?”
For what seems a long time, Collette Whiteknife stares out the window of the plane at the clear blue sky and I wonder if we’ll ever know what happened that night in Rufus Hallendry’s cabin. Then she takes a deep breath, looks straight ahead. Her voice is clear but halting, as though the only way she can let out her story is in small manageable pieces.
“It was supposed to be a practical joke. Get Smokestack drunk. Bernie and me. Then he was going to do something funny to him. Didn’t tell us what it was, but said we’d like it. So we did some hot knives, drank quite a bit. We were all pretty zonked. When Smokestack started to stumble around, my uncle came in, told us to wait in the truck.”
“Did you see him do anything to Hallendry?”
She shakes her head.
“Was he carrying anything when he came out?”
“An old tin can. I don’t know what was inside.”
“You don’t want to know. What happened next?”
“When he ran out of the cabin, there were flames shooting out the window. He told us not to tell anyone about it. The next day he sent Bernie to work at the fire.”
“And the rape?”
Collette lowers her head, shakes it subtly no.
“What about the cabin by the river?”
She stares at her feet. “He told me what to say.”
“Did you tell me anything that was true?”
“One thing,” she says quietly. “At the party — I told you I liked you.”
“Wonderful. I feel much better.”
She places a hand tentatively on my leg.
“We didn’t do anything, Porter.”
Her hand is surprisingly warm. I brush it away and she flinches.
“It was my uncle’s idea. But you passed out. I just stayed in the room with you.”
“Why
are you telling me this?”
She turns away, looks out the window.
“You said you were engaged. I didn’t want this hanging over you.”
For a few minutes there’s nothing but the roaring vibration of the float plane.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
The pilot looks back and I catch the reflection of his half smile in the curve of the windshield. It’s not everyday he has this much drama in the cockpit. Collette leans her head against my shoulder and nods off to sleep as I watch the shoreline pass below, pick out the dark smudge of the Whiskey Creek Fire, then the sprawl of Fort Chipewyan’s buildings against pink and grey granite. It dawns on me that my hands have stopped shaking and the pressure in my chest is gone. I’ve survived the Whiskey Creek Fire, Simon Cardinal, Rodney Whiteknife, and Dr. Cho. I’m going home, to see Telson, healthy and with a clear conscience.
It’s good to have my life back.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the many members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who shared their expertise in the fields of crime scene investigation, forensics, autopsy, poisoning, case management, surveillance, and fire investigation. Without exception, they were cooperative, courteous and enthusiastic in response to my many inquires. In particular, I would like to thank Sgt. Gordon Petracek, Forensic Identification Specialist; Cpl. D.B. (Bruce) Hamblin, Forensic Identification Specialist: Sam Andrews, Medical Examiner; Cpl. Keith Sanford, Major Crimes; and Cpl. Lorne Doktor (aka Doc), of Special “O.” Thanks due also to Craig Hockley, Head of Special Investigations and Forensic Services, Fish and Wildlife Division, Alberta Sustainable Resource Development (ASRD), and Morgan Kehr, HAC Coordinator, Forest Protection Division, ASRD. Dr. Robert Jarvenpa, of the Anthropology Department of the University at Albany, provided a historical context to intertribal conflict. Archie Waguan shared his experiences as Chief of the Mikisew Cree First Nation. Special thanks also to Doris MacDonald of the Aseniwuche Winewak Nation for the experience of a traditional Native sweat lodge.
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